


Insult Me.

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I think someone gets hit i dont totally remember, Orlo is sweet baby boy need protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: Request: Could you please write one fluffy where Reader and Orlo are friends, secretly crushing on eachother. Reader would be more extroverted, as a lady being well with others in the court. But when somebody from court insults Orlo repeatedly, she would stood up for him. Also could you please make the Reader taller then him pls?
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader, Orlo (The Great TV 2020)/Original Female Character(s), Orlo (The Great TV 2020)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Insult Me.

When you’d first moved to court, you’d been completely in awe each time Count Orlo spoke. He was adored by the previous ruler, a bitingly clever strategist and a loyal, intellectually stimulating friend to plenty of high-ranking people around the palace.

You had always felt yourself too lowly in his estimations to even say hello. But you had harboured an affection for him since first setting eyes on the timid aristocrat, your ears perking up at any mention of his name, always hoping he would be at events you attended.

He was frighteningly impressive, well regarded, perhaps one of the cleverest men in the palace with a strange popularity amongst older advisors to prove it.

When the new Emperor came into power, the Count had firmly held onto his status – frankly he was too brilliant to be replaced – but his reputation had taken a fascinating stumble.

At first it had been the ‘virgin’ jokes, comments on his height, a rumoured poor endowment. Orlo was bullied as boring, a stick in the mud, for reading too much, not fucking enough, refusing to dance, refusing to drink.

The list of things Peter used to erode his widespread support and personal happiness seemed endless.

Rather than a friend who was occasionally teased, evoking the most wonderfully adorable embarrassed reactions, he became nothing more than a gratuitously titled punching bag.

And like his notoriety around court, Orlo’s presence shrank under Peter’s rule.

He would hide, you would rarely see him.

As you sought him out more – only to be rewarded with the sight of him less – you were forced to accept your strange fascination with the man who so few regarded as worthy of their time.

The first time you had spoken to him directly, however, came months into Peter’s rule of Russia.

Old friends of Peter’s father had come to visit, foreign Royalty whose opinion appeared to be of utmost value to the young royal. Orlo was sat at Peter’s side, for once. An unusual seating option, a few people had noted, until you all realised why Peter wanted his favourite joke so close by.

The whole court had cringed as Peter childishly ridiculed his advisors and more trusted staff in an attempt to impress his father’s visiting friends. And over and over again Orlo, who had been so well liked by the late Emperor’s powerful associates, was made out to be a fool.

The reputation of Russia was crumbling with each crass word from the young ruler’s mouth, as Orlo sank further and further into his chair.

Finally tears welled in the man’s eyes, much to Peter’s delight, prompting him to become even crueller.

Suddenly it was as though the meal lasted forever, courses served in slow motion, as you were drawn again and again from your conversations to watch the psychological destruction of a man you had admired from afar for so long. Peter was just a bigger kid, a crueller child than Orlo in this un-monitored playground.

It struck a nerve with you, and hot tears welled in the back of your own eyes in sympathy. You quickly blinked them away again, hiding behind a joke as you entertained the landed Lords and Ladies around you.

Even as you picked at your dessert, sipped at your wine, and made sure you were using the right silverware, your heart longed to comfort the poor, lonely man who had tears streaming down his face at the Emperor’s right hand side.

As the party began properly and the crowds moved, you expected Orlo to disappear. It seemed he wasn’t allowed to, the misery on his face so poorly masked he might as well have been openly monologuing his sadness.

Each time you noticed him, hiding in the shadows as Peter entertained and the night wore on, your resolve to commit near social-suicide by speaking to him grew stronger.

You had seen him skirting the ballroom floor that night, avoiding the flailing limbs of gleefully-drunk dancers, his posture so curled over it seemed as though he was making an attempt to disappear entirely into his coat.

Despite your strong sense of self-preservation, and the fabulously wealthy company you were holding, you rose from your seat with a joking excuse – one which wrought a fluttering chorus of fake laughs from your companions – and made your way over to him.

Orlo looked at you with true fear, like a stalked rabbit realising it had no escape, as you approached him. You cursed the drink and your shoes for making you stumble a little, even as Orlo extended a hand to steady your elbow.

How gentlemanly.

“You ought not to react. It becomes a lot less entertaining to mock someone who simply laughs along.”

“Excuse me?”

His soft voice conveyed a kind of confusion you thought him entirely too clever to possess. You explained nonetheless.

“When they make fun of me, I simply laugh. Then I make the cheekiest joke I can imagine surviving, directed towards the next poor soul, and no one thinks of me as a subject of mockery again.”

Orlo ducked his head, taking a step as though looking for an exit, giving a polite smile at your words.

“Thank you for the advice, my lady. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

You recognised a brush-off when one was presented to you. With one step in front of his leading foot, you made the Count stop in his tracks, looking up at you in surprise.

“I am quite serious –”

“I am sure.”

“Insult me,” you challenged.

Orlo flustered, that obvious reaction which brought so much joy to the men who taunted him. It was an unfortunate habit to have in this place.

Most had so little shame left that they were impossible to embarrass. You could see why he was so picked upon.

“I could never. There is nothing…”

“There must be something!”

He grew more overwhelmed, more panicked, as you tried to apply pressure to him.

Both of you quickly avoided an overexuberant dancer, the moment providing the tiniest respite from the tension between you.

“I do not want to insult you,” he insisted quietly, the words hissed as though they were a secret.

“I know. But perhaps if you have an insult ready next time you are mocked, you can avoid becoming a miserable punching bag for the entire evening, yes?”

Orlo stammered, finally looking you in the face as he fought for a word. You ought to let the poor man out of his misery, you thought. But not without a reason to speak to him again in future. Against your better judgement, you found him fascinating. And you truly wanted to rebuild him, allow him to regain his pride and his reputation in a regime which held no praise for men of quiet wit and gentle brilliance.

“I can think of nothing.”

“Then I shall give you time to think of one. And next time you see me, I should like the most witty words of abuse you can think of.”

“No, I…”

You could see your table of companions beginning to look around, getting antsy. You had to keep their favour, so you allowed the poor man to leave. But not without a final word of challenge, and a final look down at his face. He was startling good-looking up close, you noticed.

Fuck, had no one else noticed how handsome he was? A waste, truly. You tried not to fumble over your parting words.

“The crueller it is, the more impressed I will be. You have to allow someone else to draw fire, my dear Orlo.”

You left him stammering as you whirled back to your table with a cheeky wink, trying to hide how rattled you were by his demeanour and unexpected beauty. The group cooed and fought to gossip the loudest as you returned, drawing their attention.

When you next found yourself looking towards his hiding place, Orlo was gone.

*

For the next few days you had hoped you might see Orlo in the corridor, that he might have some line so brilliant it could sweep you off your feet.

Alas, you next saw him at a banquet, forced to stand before Peter to endure yet another round of embarrassment.

“Get your cock out,” the Emperor told him, through a mouthful of rather loudly chewed game hen.

“Emperor, I must insist –”

“C’mon Orlo. Get your cock out, or I’ll make one of the ladies do it for you. And that would be embarrassing, now wouldn’t it.”

In uniform response to most of Peter’s other dinner guests, you were distracted from your conversation by the spectacle in the centre of the rectangle of dining tables. You were sure Peter arranged them like this on purpose, creating an arena for embarrassment in the centre.

“In order to prove you do, actually, have one – get your cock out.”

Orlo was sweating, visibly shaking even from where you were sitting. The jeers and taunts of your peers were likely just an attempt to gain the favour of the Emperor, but Count Orlo seemed unaware of those motivations. Perhaps it made no difference. He still seemed mortified, his hands tremblingly approaching the buttons of his breaches as he failed to see another option but humiliation under the Emperor’s senseless, baseless bullying.

Internally you groaned, knowing you were on the cusp of ruining your own reputation. And one of your favourite gowns.

_Damnit._

You couldn’t bear to watch yet another night of this poor man being embarrassed.

As though overly drunk, you forced yourself to stand up straight into a serving boy, his jug of red wine splashing directly over your face, a huge amount of the alcohol covering your torso and face as the servant boy swore and apologised.

Already there was laughter from Peter’s end of the table, taunts and mockery of your drunkenness and clumsiness. The Emperor’s eyes were no doubt leerily drawn to the alcohol pooling in your corseted cleavage, and to the responsive

The Count took the opportunity to escape, disappearing in the chaos, and you could only hope this embarrassment would be worth it for the pain you had saved him.

You left ashamed, pretending to stumble, offered no help as the crowd joined Peter’s mockery. No one wanted to step out of line to defend another against him. Except, apparently, you for Orlo.

Once you were outside the view of the dining hall, you leant heavily against the windowsill of the stone hallway, trying to sponge red wine out onto the carpet, out of your ruined bodice and hair. You swore quietly to yourself, until you heard another door open nearby.

Orlo quickly joined you as he escaped to the hallway outside the banquet, in his own world as he panted, recovering from the sheer panic of being humiliated in front of a crowd.

Though, with his trousers still firmly buckled, he was far less humiliated than he would have been without your intervention.

He seemed to suddenly notice you, spinning on the spot as you made a noise of complaint, the napkin clenched in your fist a red and white flag drawing his attention.

“You owe me a new dress,” you grumbled, dabbing fruitlessly at the pale bodice of your dress. It was unsalvageable. Perhaps it could be dyed a lovely maroon colour?

“What do you mean?” He questioned.

As you gestured to your own appearance, Orlo’s eyes widened.

“You mean you did that on purpose?”

“I hope you do not think me stupid enough to do this intentionally,” you grumbled. “Though that would, in fact, me an insult.”

His voice was a whisper as he processed your words, seemingly unable to comprehend the idea of anyone being self-sacrificingly _nice_ to him.

“ _Drawing fire_ , I believe I called it. You were not capable of distracting Peter’s bullets yourself, so…”

“Hence your dress is ruined.”

“Indeed.”

The party raged on behind locked doors as the two of you occupied the corridor outside. You were still sopping wine out of your dress with a saturated napkin, but you couldn’t begrudge Orlo the damage. Not really.

“I do hope you finally thought of an insult, Orlo. You will need something scathing to distract Peter with next time, I have no intention to make a career out of being a court jester.”

He thought for a moment, before his eyes suddenly lit up under the candlelight of the corridors.

“Your dress is rather unflatteringly stained.”

The words, though spoken as if they might hold venom, simply made you laugh. The Count laughed with you too, before offering you an arm.

“Allow me to walk you back to your rooms? Perhaps as an apology for such a weak attempt at an insult.”

“I will expect better next time.”

You took his elbow, glad his coat was dark and not at risk of discolouration from the unpleasantly sticky wine which dried to your skin, and allowed him to walk you all the way back to your door.

*

Funnily enough, he never did manage to come up with anything near an insult for you.

As your friendship grew, becoming firmly the most cherish relationship you had, you were never quite able to uncover Orlo’s mean streak.

You would always meet late at night, or early in the morning, stealing hours to enjoy one another’s unlikely company.

He found a more mellow side to you. Behind the outgoing and partygoing exterior he believed to be your true self, Orlo had been delighted to learn of your love of reading, and walking, and your appreciation of quiet.

Likewise, you could help him have fun. Bringing him out of his shell, he would drink and laugh with you, the pair of you laughing hysterically into the late hours of the night, or occasionally making

Despite your newfound similarities, you could never allow yourself to fully disclose the depth of your feelings for the man. You were of different social circles, different temperaments. Likewise, you were sure he felt some form of affection for you. Perhaps not the all-consuming, embarrassing crush which left you overthinking your actions with him into the wee hours of the morning, but there was something there.

Some… spark.

Yet fear held both of you back from acting upon it.

Quiet flirting and sincere enjoyment of your time together was enough, for now.

Each time he met you, he would have some weak ‘insult’ prepared, a running joke which you looked forward to far more than you ought to. Especially since he so often slipped a heart-stopping compliment in with his words.

“You are too much fun, I hurt my stomach laughing last time we were together.”

“Your hair is far too extravagant today, it is distracting.”

“Those shoes are far too unsteady, they must hurt your feet. I sometimes worry for you.”

“Your laugh is too distinctive, I can always hear it across a room. Not that it is a bad thing, I always listen for it, of course. Sorry, that was rude.”

“Your rouge is a little uneven. I think. Perhaps you should fix it. The ladies might talk…”

Each time, his words were spoken timidly, bringing a smile to your face which he would quickly mirror. It went on for months, and you delighted in Orlo’s refusal to toe the line too much. His fear of hurting your feelings, and subsequent overcorrection, delighted you.

He must enjoy these mind games too, you had realised. Or he would simply stop.

The day of the Emperor’s wedding meant great disruption and business in the corridors, and the Count was welcomed into your room without a prior planned meeting.

He arrived uninvited occasionally, long past the need for your permission to knock on the doors to your rooms. It always brought you concern – he would only seek you out under the risk of daylight when everything became too much. He had once told you that he never felt more like himself than in your company, sometimes forgetting you were even there.

You had, on reflection later, found yourself feeling the same way.

Orlo was so overwhelmed he greeted you at the door seemingly unprepared for his usual greeting.

“You are… too tall,” he announced.

You laughed, loud and unladylike, firing back:

“Perhaps you are too short!”

“You really think so?”

His quick response cut your glee short, making you notice the insecurity on his face.

“Not at all.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” you shrugged.

Orlo suddenly stood a little taller.

You offered him a seat, but he chose to pace. You sat alone instead.

“Peter is getting antsy,” he insisted, “and I fear the Empress is too… young. Too immature. She does not know what to do. If she disappoints him he will be even less settled.”

“I am sure she will be happy here,” you tried to console. “You wrote her that beautiful letter.”

“And now she knows that Peter could not possibly have written it!”

You had seen the letter, and swooned and blushed at it, trying to hide your strange jealousy from Orlo as he sought your ‘feminine approval’ for the words he had written for another man’s wife. You should have known Peter could never live up to Orlo’s poetic words. He had, of course, already upset the new Empress of Russia.

“I feared that might happen,” you confessed.

Orlo stopped walking to shoot you a smile so toothy, cheeky, knowing, you had to look away. You liked being on his side. A little _team_. And you were both in agreement on the Emperor’s shortcomings.

A dislike of the Emperor had brought you together, after all.

“He is not quite… a romantic,” Orlo admitted.

“You oversold him, dear Orlo.”

“Hm.”

Orlo returned to pacing, before he suddenly spoke again, almost to himself whilst you watched.

“I rather thought a toned down the romance, I had hoped not to lure her here under false pretence that the Emperor was some kind of _Romeo_.”

Your gaze was drawn up at one of the paintings on the wall, barely thinking as you spoke.

“If the letter to Catherine was ‘toned-down’, then I both fear for and envy the woman you truly write a love declaration to.”

The room fell into silence, the click of Orlo’s shoes ceasing as he stood near the windows.

Suddenly his voice was lower, more sincere, as he turned to leave.

“I should go. I am needed at the wedding.”

You choked down a sudden lump in your throat at his brusque departure, calling a ‘goodbye’ behind him. He had left too quickly to hear it.

*

He found you later, dressed for the celebrations and stressed in a crowd of relaxed revelers. You smiled in anticipation of whatever insult he had planned, but he simply stopped in front of you, his eyes following the line of your dress, perhaps thinking of something.

“You look beautiful.”

In your shock at his conviction, you forgot to joke about his poor insult. The compliment went straight to your chest, warming you up with affection for Orlo, making your knees embarrassingly weak.

“You too,” you managed to choke out, but Orlo was quickly distracted by removing something from his inside pocket.

“This is for you. Hide it, quickly.”

He handed you something, his warm hand guiding it towards your pocket as though it was illegal contraband. You quickly inspected the thin gift in your hand: a well-worn parchment, folded with your name adorning the outside in his neat penmanship. It was still heated from its time spend pressed inside the chest of his jacket.

Surrounded by people you could do nothing but sneak it into the pockets of your skirt, but a million ideas of the contents of the parchment were already dancing around your head. Orlo’s attention was quickly dragged away by the clap of the Emperor’s heavy, drunken hand on his shoulder.

The pair of you jumped apart like teenagers, caught kissing.

“I was telling Catherine about what an ugly fucker you are, Orlo. Come, show her your _hideous_ face.”

Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet flutter of hope that Orlo’s strange behaviour had given you, but you found yourself taking an unprecedented stride forward to put yourself directly in the Emperor’s field of view.

Without even looking, you knew there would be a crowd around you, suddenly distracted from the revelry by the realisation someone was interacting with the newly-wed Peter. You knew Orlo would be mortified, terrified, and desperate to look after you in the face of the man he was so rightfully afraid of.

Most of all, you knew Peter was furious. His cheeks were rummy from alcohol, his imposing height less intimidating to you than most, as you stared him. Your own eyes confirmed the fury in his icy-grey ones, and yet you didn’t back down, almost _begging_ him to say something else stupid.

You had endured enough of his insults towards Orlo, watched the man you loved so deeply suffer in silence. Royal or not, Peter deserved to have a taste of his own metal.

“It appears you have the wrong man, Emperor. Or perhaps, you were simply confused by a mirror again?”

With a distinctive crack of skin-on-skin, the Emperor slapped you. You heard Orlo cry out in horror, the gasps of the gentry around you, the clink of a guard’s sword as he marched towards you. It wasn’t enough to wipe the smile from your face.

“Out!” Peter spat.

The instruction was enough to have you grasped by the arms by a burly soldier, dragged towards the exit. With a warning glance, the Count stayed in place. He would smooth things over, and follow you later. You knew him well enough to predict that.

Orlo watched in horror as you were escorted out by guards, though he need not have worried. They simply let you go and returned to their posts once you were outside the party, your cheek still stinging from the clap.

With shaking hands, you scrambled with your skirts to confirm your suspicions. The thrill of being right, the new confidence in your future, would be enough to dull the pain of your bruising face.

In your pocket, you found the most beautiful love letter.


End file.
